#Never let me draw a flintlock pistol again

[eyes0fthev0id]

i present to you, my forsakenstuck au….

so far i only have chance- sorry mb i only have CH7NCE and Elli0t but im planning to make the whole cast into trolls bc im crazy

if this gets popular i might go and explain the classpects and all ::3

[dailyusuk]

Red Line: Chapter 3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335624/chapters/72675669

“Hanako?” Alfred cried, incredulous. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you, Alfred,” Hanako replied, her eyes glinting in the late afternoon light. “I came here expecting that I’d encounter mages from American blood lineages, but I did not expect I’d see you specifically. How unpleasant that you have intruded on a sacred ritual with your interloper of a Servant.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alfred waved his hands around. “The Gallofields have a right to the leylines in the area! I live here! And Rider isn’t an interloper, whatever that means!”

“Well, I never suspected that you had the potential to summon a Servant, much less a National Spirit of Rider’s caliber,” Hanako said. She covered her mouth with her sleeve and giggled. “I suppose the Grail works in mysterious ways. Doesn’t it, Saber?”

“I am well aware,” Saber said mildly. He adjusted his grip on his katana. “The Einzbern ritual in Fuyuki some years ago is one example of that. The presence of other National Spirits in this current Grail War is another.” 

“Alfred, be careful,” Arthur hissed just loud enough for him to hear. “Don’t let your past feelings distract you from the threat she and her Servant pose to our victory.” 

The solidified gold nuggets in Alfred’s sweatshirt pockets melted and snaked up his arms, forming a thick layer of Volumen Hydrachrysauem around his forearms and hands. He stepped forward and balled his hands into fists, ignoring the expression of dismay on Arthur’s face.

“Hanako, you’re a better person than this! I know you are! Don’t you remember our time together at the Clock Tower? We knew each other, right? We trusted each other, right? So why can’t we work together?”

Hanako laughed like the tinkle of wind chimes. “Oh, you poor boy. You think that I’m not your Hanako because I’m not the pleasant young girl from the Astromancy department. No, this is who I’ve always been, and you were simply too short-sighted to see me for who I am.” 

She pressed her fingers to her lips and smirked. “And working together? There’s nothing I would gain from allying with you that I wouldn’t gain by getting rid of you instead.”

“Don’t call me a boy!” Alfred snapped. He stomped his foot. “And I’m not pitiful! You’re pitiful! How can you talk to me like this? I thought we were friends!”

“Alfred,” Arthur hissed. “There are more important matters to attend to than your sore ego.”

Hanako slid an iron folding fan out of her sleeve and flipped it open, fanning herself delicately. “Rider understands! Oh, what a sensible man you have here, Alfred. You should listen to him.”

Arthur pointed his cutlass at Hanako. “No more small talk. What reason did you have to blindly attack my Master?” he snarled. “You do not seem like a woman who would act on impulse.”

If Hanako felt threatened by the provocation, she didn’t show it on her porcelain-perfect face. “Because removing your Master would also remove you from the Holy Grail War, no?” she said. “Every obstacle in our path to the Grail is a troublesome anomaly. You two are no exception.”

She flipped her iron folding fan closed and pointed it at Arthur. “Saber, go forth. Dispatch Rider now.”

“Yes, Master,” Saber confirmed. Without hesitation, he launched himself at Arthur and slashed downward. 

Arthur blocked his strike with his cutlass. Sparks flew from metal meeting metal.

“Why are you doing this, Saber?” Arthur asked, parrying another slash with the flat edge of his cutlass. “You died in peace without a wish for the Grail. What is in this bloodshed for you?”

“You know my motivations already, just as I already know of yours,” Saber said, deflecting Arthur’s return jab with the edge of his blade. “I fight for my people’s everlasting prosperity, while your wish for the Grail is entirely selfish. Is that not why you fight at his side?”

Arthur drew his lips back. “Why, you…!”

An upward slash of Saber’s blade disarmed Arthur with a resounding clang. His cutlass flew into the air in an arc and clattered to the ground several meters away. 

Before Arthur could lunge for his weapon or summon a new one, he narrowly dodged a slash that otherwise would’ve cleaved his midsection in two. 

He darted forward again but was thwarted by an onslaught of stabs and slashes that kept him at a distance from Saber.

“Your loyalty to him is your greatest weakness,” Saber said between attacks. “And yet, you fight while wearing that weakness on your sleeve. You’re no different from the man I once knew.”

“Arthur isn’t weak!” Alfred cried. “If anything, he’s really strong!”

Saber’s eyes flickered from Arthur to Alfred. He readjusted his grip on his katana and rushed forward.

“I won’t let you hurt him!” Arthur shouted, sliding on his heels in front of Alfred. 

Saber’s katana sliced into Arthur’s shoulder and then pulled back in a smooth motion, bringing forth a spray of blood. Dark stains dripped and bloomed from the wound. 

Arthur grunted and jumped backward, now slightly unsteady. With a twirl of his fingers, he summoned a pair of flintlock pistols in his hands and fired them at Saber. 

Saber blocked one shot with his katana but winced as the other grazed his shoulder. 

“Heh,” Arthur said. “You underestimate me, Saber. It’s been a long time since our alliance, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Saber agreed, readjusting his grip on his katana. “But the past means little in this world. I humbly suggest that you remember that.”

This time Arthur lunged forward with his pistols blazing before jumping back a step when Saber swung his katana between them. With each approach, Arthur slowly backed Saber towards a heap of trash and an overhang. As soon as he was in position, he dashed forward and bounded up onto the rooftops with Saber following in pursuit.

The increasingly distant sounds of Arthur and Saber’s rooftop clash jolted Alfred out of his shock. He turned to meet Hanako’s steady gaze. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Hanako,” Alfred pleaded. “It’s not too late yet. Tell Saber to stop fighting already!”

Hanako tapped her finger to her chin as if she were thinking about Alfred’s offer. “I will only do that if you agree to hand over your Command Spells and Servant, thereby forfeiting your right to fight in the Grail War.”

“No!” Alfred shouted. “Then you are as good as dead to me,” Hanako said, taking a measured step forward across the alleyway. The dull blue-green of her eyes intensified into electric blue as her Mystic Eyes activated.

Alfred held his arms up in a shaky defensive position, uncertainty churning in his gut. Since when did Hanako have Mystic Eyes?

Before he could make another move, Hanako materialized in front of him as if she’d been standing in front of him all along.

Alfred grunted in surprise and tried to throw a punch, but Hanako sidestepped easily. With a graceful twirl, she jabbed him in the side with the butt of her iron folding fan. The blow carried so much force that Alfred lurched backward and choked on his own saliva. 

Before Alfred could recover, Hanako grabbed him around the neck with a single hand and pinned him to the wall with an impossible amount of strength.

“How...?” Alfred gasped, weakly kicking his legs back and forth in midair.

“First of all, I possess the Mystic Eyes named Connection,” Hanako explained. “With this power, I can cross any amount of distance as long as I can visualize my destination in my eyes.”

“Let me go…!” Alfred hardened the molten gold enveloping his fists and punched at the hand secured around his throat to no avail.

Hanako dug her fingers into Alfred’s neck, drawing beads of blood to the surface with her sharp nails. “Struggling like a half-dead hare won’t work against me, I’m afraid.”

The sudden jabs of pain from Hanako’s nails broke Alfred’s focus. Without a constant flow of mana, the solid gold reinforcements on his hands liquified. His arms fell limply to his sides.

“That’s not the only power I concealed,” Hanako continued. “This strength comes from the Eastern martial arts that you Western maguses see as beneath your kind. That ignorance will be your downfall.” 

She dragged her iron folding fan along the length of Alfred’s forearm, easily parting the molten gold coating his skin. “Not even a strength-enhancing Mystic Code like your Volumen Hydrachrysaeum can compare to a body trained in Breathing and Walking.”

Hanako’s Mystic Eyes gleamed and flashed. 

Before Alfred knew what was happening, the narrow alleyway melted around them into an indecipherable rush of iridescent colors. 

With another flash of Hanako’s eyes, the colors solidified into a grassy field somewhere outside the town. The din of gunfire and metal hitting metal became soft and distant. 

Now that there was no longer a wall at Alfred’s back, Hanako held him aloft by the neck without showing even a hint of exertion.

“You are very inexperienced, Alfred,” Hanako said breezily. “A Servant as powerful as Rider is a waste in your hands. Rest assured that I will sever your contract with him as painlessly as possible. That is the one mercy I will grant you.”

Alfred grit his teeth. “I still… want… to save you,” he managed. “I don’t… want… your dumb… mercy.”

Hanako curled her lips upward into a wide, thin smile. “No matter what you think of my mercy now, you will beg for it once I’m done with you.” 

She then raised her iron folding fan in the air and unfurled it, displaying a red sun that glinted in the sunlight. “Saber, come to me!”

Pale smoke from some kind of smoke bomb poured into the open field, concealing the nearby buildings and foliage from view until all Alfred could see was a small patch of ground around him and Hanako. 

Alfred strained against Hanako’s grasp as he turned his head towards the noises he could hear growing closer and closer.

Somewhere in the smoke, yellow and orange gunfire popped and crackled from Arthur’s flintlock pistols. A blade -- Saber’s katana -- hummed and whistled through the air, dispelling smoke around it.

Then, silence. 

Alfred unconsciously held his breath. Had Arthur won?

His heart sank when he heard soft footsteps rapidly approaching. 

Saber emerged unscathed from the smoke with his back to Hanako and his katana raised in an attacking position.

Arthur followed close after, emerging from the smoke with his flintlock pistols pointed at Saber’s head. His breathing was heavy and labored as the bloodstain on his shoulder crept down his arm and torso.

“Watch,” Hanako commanded. “With a Master as weak as you at the helm, Rider is no match for my Saber.”

Hanako tightened her grip around Alfred’s neck, holding him steady. With her other hand, she flipped her iron folding fan between her fingers and jabbed Alfred in the side of his body forcefully enough to pierce flesh.

The sudden searing hot burst of pain made Alfred shriek with pain. Blood spurted from the stab wound and soaked through his torn sweatshirt, turning the iron folding fan red and slick.

As if pulled by an invisible string, Arthur wheeled around toward Alfred and cried out in anguish.

“Alfred!”

Saber’s katana hummed through the air. With an artful slash, he sliced a line of blood across Arthur’s chest, then another, and another. 

Arthur dropped his pistols and staggered backwards in shock. Blotches of crimson seeped through his wool uniform joining the stain around his bleeding shoulder. 

As Arthur gripped at the deep wounds marking his torso, Saber lunged forward with his katana raised to deliver the final blow.

“Arthur!” Alfred screamed, thrashing within Hanako’s grip. 

Alfred desperately shut his eyes and visualized the flow of mana through the Command Spells engraved on his right arm. 

Please, don’t die! Stay by my side! 

With a flash of red light piercing through molten gold, the stripes faded from Alfred’s arm. 

Saber’s katana sliced through empty air where Arthur once stood. 

Arthur, now bathed in a red glow from the power of Alfred’s Command Spell, manifested next to Alfred. He kicked Hanako square in the gut with his heel, knocking her backward with enough force to break her grip on Alfred’s neck. 

Suddenly freed, Alfred fell to his knees and coughed blood onto the ground. He could feel his mind slowly refocusing on his surroundings as he continued taking deep breaths. After one more inhale, he unsteadily got to his feet.

“Alfred!” Arthur cried, his body firmly planted between Alfred and Hanako. “Give me as much mana as you can!”

Without any hesitation or fear, Alfred placed his gold-coated hands on Arthur’s back. The mere contact filled Alfred’s body with burning heat, an impossible amount, as mana flooded through Volumen Hydrachrysaeum like a flood bursting through a dam. Blue-green Magic Circuits crackled to life across Arthur’s body emanating outward from Alfred’s hands. 

As Arthur raised his hand in the air, the atmosphere thickened with golden light and mana, dispelling the pale smoke shrouding the field.

“The ocean is my strength, my royal domain, my very blood,” he chanted.

“No!” Hanako hissed, but a blast of pressure emanating from Arthur’s feet knocked her back before she could use her Mystic Eyes. 

Saber immediately leapt to her side and wrapped an arm around her while holding his katana in a defensive position. Despite his firm stance and defiant gaze, there was visible fear in his eyes.

“All the treasures that lay on the Earth's surface will one day rest in my hands.”

A cool, pungent sea breeze filled Alfred’s nostrils. He watched in awe as an array of cannons manifested from the light that enveloped him and Arthur. He recognized from the pages of maritime history books the cannons of the HMS Dreadnought, the Golden Hind, the HMS Victory, and many others.

“I call upon the brothers-in-arms whose essence has returned to my soil. The glorious sun shall never set on our conquests.”

The cannons glowed with a gold luster as they accumulated mana from the atmosphere. The sea wind intensified.

Arthur pointed his outstretched hand at Saber. 

“Rule Britannia!” Arthur cried.

Rays of concentrated mana exploded forth from the cannons in a deafening series of blasts. Saber leaped into the air with Hanako cradled under his arm and broke into a run across the open field. 

Each cannon blast sent a shockwave through the earth wherever they struck, sparks and smoke flying forth. 

Saber narrowly dodged each impact as he zig-zagged between fiery explosions and the resulting craters.

Then, one of the mana blasts grazed Saber’s back. Flames and smoke engulfed his blue-green haori. He stumbled from the shock, leaving himself vulnerable to the oncoming onslaught.

“Saber!” Hanako screamed. The red light of a Command Spell flashed through the smoke and dust. “Shield me and remain manifested in this world!”

“Rho Aias!” Saber shouted. A four-petaled pink flower unfurled from his hand, forming a defensive shield between him and the barrage of cannon fire. 

Mana blasts pummelled the shield in pink and gold explosions. Each impact sent Saber and Hanako backward several yards, but the shield held steady. 

Still, the shield wouldn’t hold forever. An especially powerful blast smashed into the shield, shattering one of the petals into dust. 

Another blast hit, and another, and another. Two more petals shattered under the strain.

After one more blast, the last petal of Saber’s shield shattered. Golden light and flames instantly swallowed him and Hanako where they stood.

“That’s enough,” Arthur muttered under his breath. “I won’t drain any more mana from you, Alfred. Your body isn’t trained for this yet.”

Arthur stepped away from Alfred, breaking the flow of mana between them. The vast array of cannons constituting Arthur’s Noble Phantasm faded away into nothingness, leaving behind a cloud of smoke and a crater in an empty field. 

Volumen Hydrachrysaeum shrunk and solidified back into a gold nugget in Alfred’s palm. Without mana flowing through it, it felt cold to the touch as he slipped it into his pocket.

With the connection between him and Arthur now broken, Alfred felt kickback reverberate through his body from temporary mana loss. He stumbled and only found his footing when Arthur silently wrapped an arm around him, keeping him upright. 

For a long moment, the only sounds Alfred could hear were his heavy breathing and a persistent ringing in his ears. The heavy smoke from the impact of Arthur’s Noble Phantasm obscured his view of the crater. 

When the smoke finally cleared, Saber was kneeling in the center of the crater while supporting his weight on his broken katana. His haori and sections of his kimono had been completely burned off his body by the cannon blasts, making him look far smaller than he had seemed in the alleyway. Blood dripped from shrapnel wounds across his face and hands.

Next to Saber, Hanako got to her knees, her resplendent kimono in tatters. Her eyes were their natural blue-green without her Mystic Eyes activated. 

“This isn’t the end of this, Jones,” she spat, then turned toward Saber. “We’re making a strategic retreat, Saber!”

“Yes, Master,” Saber affirmed. He dissipated into his spirit form with a burst of pale smoke.

In a flash, Hanako’s Mystic Eyes reactivated. This time, she looked at a point beyond the decimated open field and blinked into nothingness, leaving behind nothing but the crater and tattered scraps of silk.

“Arthur, we won!” Alfred shouted. He pumped his fists in the air. “Arth--”

A frigid breeze swept over the open field. Snow and ice pelted the ground as a sudden bank of thick fog rolled in. 

Arthur’s face suddenly morphed from relief to barely concealed fear. “Alfred, get in my arms,” Arthur said, his voice measured and even. “I’m getting you out of here. This isn’t a fight we can win right now.”

“A-alright,” Alfred stammered, nervously placing his hands on the sides of Arthur’s body. He could feel his body heat up when Arthur lifted him into his arms in a bridal carry. 

Several hundred yards away, a dark wraith clad in Soviet military robes materialized from the gathered fog. It towered over the distant treetops, resembling a Phantasmal Beast more than an actual humanoid.

At the sight of the wraith, Alfred clung closer to Arthur’s bloodsoaked body and shivered with fear that settled deep into his bones. Frost began to gather at the tips of Arthur’s coat and Alfred’s sweatshirt.

“Russia,” Arthur growled. “You’re certainly not a sight for sore eyes.”

“Long time no see, England,” a soft yet distinctly masculine voice called from somewhere within the frigid fog. “You have grown soft in old age, no? In our day, you would have turned poor Japan into a speck of dust without a second thought. Now, look at you. Your strength isn’t what it used to be after the world ended. How pitiful.”

The dark wraith turned its glowing eyes towards Alfred and Arthur.

“I am more impressed by your little Master over there. He is very strong for a small one, yes? But strong is still not strong enough.” 

A smile spread across the dark wraith’s face.

“Remember this next time you come running into town with your little Servant, human. General Winter will be watching.”

A million thoughts raced through Alfred’s head. Russia? The country? Was every Servant in this Grail War a National Spirit? And who the fuck was General Winter? Whoever he was, Alfred wanted to fight him. 

But more urgently, exhaustion was rapidly setting into Alfred’s body as the adrenaline rush from seeing Arthur’s Noble Phantasm in action faded away. Dark spots encroached on his vision.

The blizzard suddenly intensified. A wall of snow obscured the dark wraith from sight, with only the wraith’s distant glowing eyes piercing through the void. 

“Don’t worry,” Arthur said. “I’ll keep you safe. We’ll retreat and face this threat when we’re stronger, A…”

Arthur’s lips moved for a few more seconds and then curved into a soft smile. His words had been drowned out by the howling of the winter winds. Then, he burst into a run, easily carrying Alfred in his arms through frozen fields and forest cover.

As Alfred’s head lolled against Arthur’s lean chest and strong arms, he weakly tried to blink the fog out of his eyes. In his half-conscious haze, he saw Arthur with blood caked on his face, eyes determined, Arthur wrapped in deep crimson, then in strange green khaki, then in unfamiliar dark leather, then in thin threadbare wool, then Arthur looking at him with an unreadable expression, Arthur...

“Arthur!” 

Alfred jolted upright with a cry of his Servant’s name before bending over into a coughing fit. Blankets and what felt like a hot water bottle weighed down on his legs as he dry heaved. 

When he finally inhaled a deep breath, he felt a hand on his chest holding him steady.

“Arthur…?” Alfred whispered, turning to look into bright green eyes. 

“Everything’s alright, Alfred,” Arthur murmured soothingly, rubbing circles into Alfred’s sternum. “You’re in your bed after you slept through the night recovering from that battle. We’re safe behind your estate’s defensive barriers. I tended to your wounds with the help of your maids and watched over you. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I dreamed of you, Arthur…” Alfred said. Arthur suddenly grew very still. “I saw you. You were wearing some kinda green khaki uniform, and then you were looking at me really intensely, and…”

Arthur coughed. “Ah, well, occasionally Masters may dream of their Servants’ past lives. Seeing as our connection is practically soul-deep, as you might say, there’s little wonder that you may have glimpsed flashes of who I was in another time. I do say that green was a fine color on myself, though I’m still quite fond of the brown uniform I wear in this form.”

Alfred frowned and turned to look at Arthur, wondering if there was something Arthur wasn’t telling him.

At the very least, he could see that Arthur’s wounds had all healed after Alfred had cast his first Command Spell to strengthen him. Having evidently cleaned himself up while Alfred was unconscious, Arthur now wore a simple outfit of a white shirt and jeans that he somehow managed to look rather handsome in.

“I’ll let you sit up,” Arthur said, gingerly removing his fingers from Alfred’s chest. He turned around and rifled through the top drawer of Alfred’s stout little nightstand before holding up a spoon containing a questionable liquid. “Here’s a medicinal mixture that will aid your healing. Drink up.”

The stench of the medicine made Alfred wrinkle his nose with disgust, but he trusted that Arthur had good intentions and wouldn’t poison him with weird British medicine. 

Probably. 

Alfred closed his eyes, leaned forward, and let Arthur tip the medicine into his mouth. As the bitter-tasting liquid slid down his throat, he felt his memories of the altercation with Hanako, Saber, and the mysterious evil Servant come back to him in an intense rush.

“What was that?” Alfred asked once he finished swallowing. He waved his hand around in a vague circle. “You know, all the cool shit you did once I gave you some mana.”

“That was one of my Noble Phantasms, Rule Britannia,” Arthur explained. “While it didn’t quite finish off Saber, a lesser Heroic or National Spirit would stand no chance of survival against the combined might of my Royal Navy. I was only able to summon a Rule Britannia of that caliber because of the mana infusion you gave me through your Mystic Code as well as the Command Spell you cast on me.”

Alfred nodded. “And how come you and Saber knew each other? I thought Servant identities were supposed to be these whole secret identity things, but you guys recognized each other, like, on the spot.”

“Yes, that is the case usually. But this clearly isn’t a usual Grail War.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Japan -- or, rather, Saber -- was someone I knew during my lifetime. While he manifested in a form earlier than the one I befriended, he still remembered enough about me to exploit my weaknesses. That is the danger of fighting an enemy who knows your True Name.” 

Arthur pursed his lips. “And if my current suspicion that this is a Grail War of National Spirits is correct… every Servant we’ll face in this Grail War will know my True Name.”

“So every fight will be like that,” Alfred said flatly. He bunched the bedsheets up between his fingers. “Arthur, I--I think I’m a burden on you. You should do this without me. I’m not strong, or smart, or capable, or…”

Arthur placed his hands on Alfred’s shoulders. “Alfred. Listen to me.”

Alfred made an undignified noise when he felt the warmth and softness emanating from Arthur’s hands. Still, he looked up and maintained eye contact with Arthur’s determined gaze.

“I swore an oath that I’d protect you as your Servant. I recognize you, and only you, as my Master. My strength is your strength, and your strength is also mine. Understand?”

“Y-yeah, but--” “That means that I have one request for you: don’t place yourself in harm’s way for my sake ever again.” Arthur tightened his grip on Alfred’s shoulders. “I am your sword and shield. A weapon should protect his master, not the other way around.”

“But that’s not true!” No matter how Alfred felt about himself, he didn’t want Arthur to speak about himself like he was an object and not a beautiful, strong man. “If we’re each other’s strength, then we should protect each other! We beat Saber when I gave you mana, right? Then I just need to keep giving you mana in battle! And since knowing someone’s identity gives you an advantage, and you and Saber knew each other, we’ll be on equal terms with any National Spirit we run into!”

Arthur smiled gently. “You are right about that. Your optimism is rather admirable. As you said, I will also know the True Name of every National Spirit we encounter. And not all of them will know of your own capabilities, which is why we must train your Magecraft as quickly as possible.”

“Yeah!” Alfred agreed, moving to get out of bed. But as he did, he felt a jolt of pain deep in his gut. “Agh!”

“Careful there, lad,” Arthur immediately pressed Alfred back into a reclining position in the bed. “You’re not fully recovered yet.”

“I-- yeah, yeah, right,” Alfred agreed. His face was warm from the skin-to-skin contact. “I’ll be careful. Very careful.”

Arthur patted Alfred’s chest. “That’s a good lad. If there is anything this day has taught us, lad, it is that this is not a normal Grail War. Whoever wins a Grail filled with defeated National Spirits will undoubtedly possess enough mana to remake the entire world in their image. It is up to us to put a stop to that and take the Grail for ourselves.”

Alfred didn’t respond, transfixed by the faint light glowing in Arthur’s impossibly green eyes. Had Arthur been this handsome the whole time?

“But before we do that,” Arthur continued. “I’ll head downstairs and help Layetta in the kitchen. Kitchen work is perfectly dignified work for a gentleman such as myself, before you say anything to the contrary.”

“Wasn’t gonna say anything,” Alfred chirped innocently. 

Arthur smirked. “I do hope you weren’t. My punishment for dishonesty aboard my ships was cutting out the offending bloke’s tongue. Rest well tonight, lad.”

“I sure will!” Alfred replied.

Arthur closed the bedroom door behind him with a smile. 

Alfred spent the next half hour snuggled in his blankets replaying images of handsome, strong, and cute Arthur in his head.

(Please leave a kudos and comment on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335624/chapters/72675669)

[deltas-writing-corner]

Warmth: Act 1 - 13

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Disclaimer: This is only the first 1000 words of the chapter. If you would like to read the rest, click here!

Warnings: none

Masterlist: (coming soon)

You stayed in bed the rest of the day. Mai and a few of the maids came in to check on you and express their joy at your awakening, but you couldn't reciprocate their sentiments as well as you would have liked to. Just as you start to think of a way to repay the girls for helping you out earlier, a muffled thud makes you spring out from underneath your covers to see what it was. It was only Ranmaru, who was kneeling down by your bed.

"Did I wake you?" he whispers.

"No," you answer, sitting yourself up and stretching out your stiff body real quick. "Don't keep me in suspense. Has he made up his mind?"

"He asked me to escort you to his quarters. I made sure to check the area for anything that would indicate a trap being set, but the place is clean. It seems he's willing to just talk with you."

“Good,” you sigh. That’s one matter less to worry over. “Thank you for double checking everything for me.”

He shakes his head and looks up at you with a soft smile. "It's no problem, my lady. This is the least I can do for you."

He helps you onto your feet and begins leading you by the hand. You make sure to keep your grip tight and follow his lead with precision. The last thing you want is to not only get caught out of your room, wide awake, but for him to get into trouble for helping you out. Thankfully, the two of you find yourself at the familiar manor in no time. He leads you to the back, where Mitsuhide's room is presumably at.

“He’s in there.” Ranmaru points towards a pair of doors. A flickering yellow hue finds its way through the miniscule crevices of the sliding doors, indicating that someone is present in the room. “Are you alright?” he suddenly asks you.

You hadn’t realized that your body began shaking, nor of the fact that your breathing has stopped entirely. You can feel each beat of your heart within the front of your head, down to the tips of your fingers and bare feet. Strangely enough, this midnight meeting is even more panic inducing than the skirmish you were brought out to. You had nothing to lose then, being immortal an all, unlike now.

Your very survival is on the line here. Kuro, your most trusted ally and brother, is gone. He isn’t here to squeeze your neck and reassure you in his typical blunt manner. He isn’t here to sink his teeth into the back of your hand and tell you to shut up and stop overthinking. At least back then, when the two of you were enemies, his lingering presence always reminded you that you were never alone. Even with Ranmaru standing right next to you, firmly holding and stroking the back of your hand with his thumb, you can’t help but feel so cold.

For the first time in 300 years, you feel so alone.

However, you are alone for a reason. Mitsuhide is alive for a reason. Kuro would have injected every ounce of his venom in him if he didn’t have faith in you. He sacrificed his body and held back because he believes you are capable of taking charge of the situation and turning it towards your advantage like you did many times before, in this life and the last.

He believes in you now, just as he did back then.

Your hand shoots up towards your face and you bite down on the back of your hand hard enough to draw a bit of blood. Ranmaru flinches at the sudden action, but he’s shocked completely still at the crazed, determined look in your eyes even within the blanket of darkness. A trail of saliva and blood stays connected to your lips when you pull back until you wipe it away with your sleeve. You take a breath in, hold it for a few seconds, and then release it out.

“Ranmaru,” your voice suddenly takes on a commanding tone despite it being hushed. “I need one more favor from you.”

He can see that you’re still scared shitless, but ready to face whatever it is that lies ahead of you once you open those doors. You have earned his respect and gratitude too many times to count. Somehow, you’ve earned it again despite having never lost it before.

He lets go of your hand and takes a full step back before lowering himself onto one knee and bowing his head to you. A symbol of his respect for you. “What do you need from me?”

“Go away.”

Your command, although simple, completely throws him off. Before he can question you or ask for further clarification, your hand finds its way under his chin and lifts his head up to look at you. You're looking at him as if nothing was ever wrong, like you weren’t freaking out just moments ago. His tongue swells up with uneasiness when you begin to pat and brush the top of his head like one would an innocent child.

“While I have every intention of making that white-haired rat kiss the very ground I step upon by the time the sun rises, I can’t take any more risks from here on out. In case things don’t go as planned, I need you as far away from here as possible.”

“I-It’s alright!” he frantically brushes off your concern. “No matter what happens tonight, I’ll stick by your side-”

“No,” you sternly cut him off. “I don’t want you anywhere near here, and that’s final.”

“But-”

Your hand returns to your side as you lower yourself down on your knees, down to his same level. Whatever argument he had left is silenced by your final plea. “Please, just go.” You pathetically say. “I can’t lose anyone else today.”

Your hands return to him again, this time running against the few bruises and scratches that litter neck from restraining Mitsuhide earlier. Ranmaru received these wounds whilst you were in limbo within your head. Mai and the other attendants came to your side and offered their help without hesitation despite having little to no combat training. The people around you have gone to such lengths for your sake. Such influence over them amazes you as much as it saddens you.

You will make good on the efforts everyone has given for you. But should you fail, the least you could do is ensure that no one else falls with you.

After a moment of silence, Ranmaru thankfully nods his head in understanding. You usher him away before standing up and facing the towering doors once again. It isn’t until you can no longer hear his silent footsteps that walk forward, grab onto the round handles, and pull the doors open. You’re immediately hit with warm air, a stark contrast from the chilly air from outside. Inside awaits the person you both despise and fear the most in this world, Mitsuhide Akechi.

He’s seated down by a low desk, nestled comfortably to the left side of the room. In his hands are a couple of papers that his eyes skim over, slowing down only when he happens upon something worth his full attention. When you step in and close the doors behind you, he pulls his amber irises away from his work to quickly acknowledge your arrival.

“Come in and make yourself comfortable,” he gestures towards the cushion positioned in front of his desk. “I won’t be long.”

You slowly make your way into the room. Ranmaru reassured you that their isn’t any traps or tricks set up for you, but you’d rather be safe than sorry. You lower yourself onto your offered seat and observe his room in the meantime. The first thing that catches your eyes is the small flintlock pistol almost conveniently on full display within the recessed wall. A delicate vase with a single stem of white flowers is set right next to it. Whether he meant to set it up in such a manner, you can't help but feel like you're being mocked by the weapon being so shamelessly displayed next to delicate and pure flowers.

You mentally slap yourself, or rather, you envision Kuro slapping you on the back of your head with his tail for letting yourself get worked up over essentially nothing. You move your vision away to the other side of the display; a hanging scroll and a piece of round ceramic or porcelain held up by a wooden stand. The scroll is of a painting of the moon, illuminating the same type of white, bell-like flowers as the ones in the vase. You look down to inspect the details of the fine china, but something suddenly tugs on your sleeve.

It's a fox. Its fluffy fur, as pure a white as a fresh blanket of snow. Its slanted eyes press together in satisfaction as it gnaws on your sleeve. You try to pull the damp fabric out from its mouth, but it growls and bites down into it like a vice.

"Hey now," you light-heartedly scold it. "This is mine."

It rapidly trashes its head side to side, silently telling you that no, your sleeve belongs to them now. You let your arm go limp to fake giving up to its advances, pleasing it greatly and causing its tail to rapidly sway back and forth. As soon as it lays down and relaxes, you swipe the fabric away and securely tuck it out of sight before it could bite on it again.

Mitsuhide gives a quick glance up to check out the commotion. Chimaki is snapping her jaw and burrowing her nose into your side. She's determined to get back whatever it is that you took from her that was likely never hers in the beginning. You aren't bothered by her persistence, much to his relief. The inhuman strength and soul quaking hisses of your companion before he beheaded him and the brief flash of serpent eyes from you. It was all still so fresh to his head, yet he's somehow managed to keep himself as calm as can be and called you to his room instead of outing you the moment he way away from you.

He thinks back to his conversation with Hideyoshi earlier in the day, the documents in his hands nearly rip as his grip suddenly tightens.

"It's been a week and she still hasn’t woken up! There’s no signs of improvement, but no worsening symptoms either. Even the other physicians can do nothing but check her pulse and breathing regularly. Yet even then, all of them note of a few moments where she stops breathing, but her heart keeps beating. Augh, this is so frustrating!”

With how concerned he looked and sounded, one would think it was Nobunaga that was injured and not the chatelaine. You are highly looked upon by Nobunaga, if the reports of his hellish attitude and looming presence during the duration of your initial treatment is to be believed. Surely, you are not held in the same regard as their shared lord. But in the eyes of Hideyoshi, your favoritism from the one he is most painstakingly loyal to places you on a pedestal just as high as the Devil King himself.

That was a major issue for Mitsuhide. He needed to kick that pedestal from right under your feet before you can even think about claiming the one slightly higher than your own. Normally, he would work within the shadows and resort to his usual dirty tactics. For you, someone clearly not human, and for the good of the people of Azuchi, he was willing to step into the light and ask for some assistance.

But before he can even dip his toe into the otherside, Hideyoshi says something that unknowingly halted him and forced him back into his dark corner.

"She better wake up soon. If not for Nobunaga-sama or Hisa-Obaasan's sake, then for Hayai's."

Hayai. How could Mitsuhide forget him? One day, you came running to Hideyoshi, holding what you believed to be an interesting looking rock. It was not a rock but instead a turtle shell, with said animal still inside and a bit frightened. It was one of many reasons (although silly) that pushed him to carry out his unauthorized excursion to Ise. How can anyone who is human not know what a turtle is?! How can any human not think it odd that someone doesn't know what a turtle is?!

It's because he trusts you. Hideyoshi trusts you enough to not question what is reasonably questionable and suspicious. He is not the only one who's heart you've coiled around. Nobunaga is so charmed with you that he would raise hell over your well-being in his own home and demand Ieyasu to return immediately, despite being out on an assignment by his own orders. Ranmaru and possibly every single female attendant in Azuchi not only trusts you and considers you like a sister, but they're fully aware of your secret and have no intention to sell you out.

It is because so many people support you that he felt necessary to swallow his now fixed tongue.

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[thecleverdame]

Sleepy Hollow - Chapter Seven

Series Master List

Pairings: Sam x Reader, mentions of Dean x Jo

Summary: In 1799, specialized police constables Sam and Dean Winchester are sent from New York City to a small town called Sleepy Hollow to investigate a series of murders. Approached by the town’s council, the Winchesters discover the local residents believe that the murders are the work of a deadly Hessian horseman whose head has been mysteriously chopped off. With help from the beautiful Y/N Van Tassel, Sam Winchester’s investigation takes him further through the dark wood where more murders have been occurring. What Sam does not realize is that the mysterious Horseman is being controlled by someone in a sinister plot to kill the most suitable men in the village.

Warnings: Canon-level violence, murder, smut, horror, gore and a little fluff for good measure.

Words: 40k

Beta:  ilikaicalie

This series is completed. You can read it on my Patreon for a monthly pledge of 2.50. This pledge includes early access to all my stories and Patreon exclusive content.  >> CLICK HERE <<

-

Philipse House -  Night

Sam and Dean crouch in the shadows, peeking over the edge of a lighted window, watching men pace and argue.

“Can you make out what they’re saying?” Sam whispers.

“Not when you’re talking.” Dean shoves an elbow into his ribs, moving his ear toward the pane of glass.

Magistrate Philipse is packing his bags while Steenwyk, Lancaster, and Hardenbrook are in agitated conference. Their voices are raised but indecipherable.

“Look out!” Dean hisses, both Winchesters sinking to the ground, pressing their backs against the side of the cottage.

Steenwyck comes right to the window as if he has seen something, but merely closes the shutters. The front door opens and Philipse exits, tying his bag to a horse and quickly riding off into the night.

“That’s not suspect.” Dean snorts.

Road Outside of Town A mounted man is approaching on a heavily loaded pack horse. It’s Magistrate Philipse making his getaway from Sleepy Hollow. Sam and Dean rode ahead not ten minutes before and have been waiting to intercept him. Sam leaps out of the shadows grabbing the bridle of the pack horse.

“What are you doing? Let go!” Philipse shouts, kicking the horse.

“What are you running from, Magistrate Philipse?” Sam thrusts a finger toward him.

“Damn you, Winchester,” the magistrate sputters, still trying to break free. “Both of you quiet down,” Dean hisses. “You'll raise the village.” “You had a mind to help me and now you are leaving,” Sam questions.  “Why?”

“Yes, but I am a fool. I put myself in mortal dread of…”

“Of...what?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Powers against which there is no defense,” Philipse whimpers. Sam’s not done with this man, there is more he needs to know and no one is leaving until he’s had his fill.

“How did you know the widow was expecting a child?” Sam presses.

“She told me.” “We are to deduce you are the father,” Dean quips, folding his arms over this chest. “I hope your deductions serve you better in your contest against the Hessian. I am not the father.” “Did she tell you the name of the child's father?” Sam insists.

“Yes, she did.” Philipse is beginning to sweat, looking around him, scanning the line of the woods. “She came to me for advice as the town magistrate.” There’s the sound of sheep in agitation at some distance but Sam holds Philipse to his story. “She wanted to protect the rights of her child. I was bound by my oath of office to keep the secret.” “Do you believe the father killed her?” Dean looks to his brother. Philipse stares at him in surprise. “The Horseman killed her! You damn fools, do you suppose the Horseman stops to impregnate women?” “The Horseman?” Sam scoffs. He’s had enough. “How often do I have to tell you there is no Horseman! There never was a Horseman! And there never will be a Horseman!” Sam grabs him fiercely, pulling on the amulet Philipse wears around his neck. “Let go! It is my talisman that protects me from the Horseman!” “You’re a magistrate and your head is full of such nonsense! Now tell me the name of-” A flock of sheep comes streaming and bleating across the path. The horses go crazy, braying and rearing.

“Sam…” Dean side-eyes his brother, looking toward the forest.

“Don’t start Dean, not this preposterous old-wives tale-”

There’s the distant thundering sound of hoofbeats and the wind kicks up. A flock of bird alights from the woods, flying into the moonlit sky. “Oh my.” Philipse makes the sign of the cross over his heart. ”Oh my, oh my, oh my.”

Philipse throws himself from the horse, scrambling to his feet and running away. The hoofbeats grow louder as Sam and Dean look to the dark of the road before them.  

The forest explodes open, foliage bending to make way as the Headless Horseman gallops into view atop his black beast.

“That is no costume.” Dean draws his pistol. Sam is momentarily stunned, unable to believe his eyes. He looks down to draw his flintlock pistol, but the Horseman roars past before he can raise it or Dean can take aim. Everything happens in what feels like seconds. The Horseman chases Philipse who’s looking over his shoulder, running for his life in a flat sprint. The Horseman draws his sword. Philipse gathers his courage and stops, turning. He raises his iron key talisman before him. The Horseman is closing in. “Philipse!” Sam shouts as he and Dean take off toward the magistrate. Philipse holds the talisman up with shaking hands, trying to be fearless. The Horseman swings his sword upon the talisman and Philipse's severed head spins. His body falls and folds to the dirt. The Horseman turns his horse in a wide circle, making a complete turn, letting out a feral cry as the Horseman rides straight toward brothers.

Before either brother has time to take proper aim, the Horseman is upon them, then past. His foot kicks out as he passes Sam, connecting with the youngest Winchester’s temple in a sickening crack as he rides toward Philipse's corpse. The Hessian leans effortlessly to skewer Philipse's head with his sword. With the head as his prize, the Horseman races away. Sam and Dean turn, watching him head back into the forest. “Sam,” Dean grabs his brother. Sam can feel the gush of blood running down from his hairline and then he loses consciousness for the second time in Sleepy Hollow.

Van Tassel House - Sam’s Room Sam gasps awake as there’s a knock at his door. He shoots up in bed and Dean jolts awake from his chair in the corner. “Constable Winchester?” Baltus calls from the hall. Sam looks at his hand balled into a fist. He opens his hand holding both halves of Philipse’s iron key talisman. In the hallway, Young Masbath is seated by Sam's closed door. You’re behind your father who knocks again. “Has he spoken at all?” your father inquires.  Young Masbath shakes his head no. Baltus enters, you and Young Masbath follow him, cautiously. Sam sits up in bed looking utterly bewildered.

“He has a concussion.” Dean yawns, getting up from his seat. “It was a Headless Horseman!” Sam mutters. “You must not excite yourself,” your father warns.

“No, you must believe me, it was Horseman! A dead one! Headless! My brother saw it too, tell them, Dean!” Sam looks from you to your father, but there’s not much behind his eyes. “I know, I know.” Baltus nods. “You don't know because you weren't there! But it's all true!” Sam looks to you earnestly. “Of course it is. I told you! Everyone told you!” Baltus exclaims. “I saw him,” Dean confirms, turning to you. “This isn’t good for him. He’s out of his mind, he took a hard hit to the head and he needs time to recover without this kind of agitation.” Sam’s eyes roll up into his skull and he falls back on the pillow.

“Sam,” you say gently, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking his limp hand in yours.

“I suppose it's back to the city then,” Young Masbath sighs.

You stiffen, looking to the elder Winchester who catches your eyes before shaking his head.

“He needs a good night’s sleep is all.” -

A million white milkweed seedlings are floating in the sunlight. Young Sam is laughing in delight as Mary’s blows the seedlings into the air. She hands him a milkweed pod and shows him how to do it for himself.

Sam breaks the pod and releases another million. But when he looks around to share the delight, his Mother has gone, and he sees her disappearing among the trees. He gets up to follow her. Sam can't see his Mother anywhere, he’s searching and searching finally to see her standing in the middle of a beautiful circle in the forest glade, surrounded by toadstools and mushrooms. Sam watches as his Mother spins inside the mushroom circle, almost dancing, his face smiling and happy. She stoops down to pick up a mushroom and eat it, dropping a small piece. He sees it fall, running forward to pick up and popping it into his mouth.

She watches him in delight, takes his small hands in hers, dancing with him. As Sam whizzes around laughing, his point of view becomes the encircling trees whizzing around, and suddenly he seems to be surrounded by menacing headless figures dressed all in black. Sam falls over dizzy and when he looks up he sees that the headless figures have merged into one, becoming his Father, watching his Mother heedlessly dancing, his face like thunder. His mother has loosened her clothes and is virtually bare-breasted. John's eyes begin to glow like live coals as Sam cowers away from him. Suddenly he’s in his house at night. Sam spies through a crack in the kitchen door, wearing a nightshirt that falls past this knees. Mary is seated, her head down. His father paces, chastising his mother angrily, his fist balled up in rage. John continues to berate his mother. He picks up his Bible off the table, waving it, then grabs Mary by the shoulders, forcing her to the floor. John forces her to her knees, she’s afraid, clasping her hands in front of her as John forces her to pray. He starts reading from the Bible. In Sam's dream, this is the same Bible from Baltus's house. Sam watches, afraid. He backs away, retreating upstairs to his room. A window is thrown crashing open, thundering booming. Young Sam sits up in his bed. He goes to close the window, rain pouring in. He looks down... Below, in front of the home, a man is dragging Mary toward a coach. Two other men stand watching, faces hidden under hat brims. His mother looks back, eyes pleading, struggling. In a desperate moment, she looks up to Young Sam. The two men look up to Sam: one is his father, and the third is a man with a villainous face. Sam reaches helplessly toward Mother as she’s forced into the coach. The third man speaks to John, then walks to the coach. He gets onto the coach as the coach starts away. John watches, rain flowing down his stony features. Lightning flashes and in the corner of the room Sam sees the cat watching him with glowing eyes.

Sam awakes, breathing heavily. After a beat, he flings back the bedclothes and springs out of bed, energized by a new determination. He finds Dean in his room, barging in without so much as a knock. His brother is laying on his bed, fully clothed with one hand on his chest.

“I’m glad to see you up and moving,” Dean cracks one eye.

“Perhaps a knock to the head was what I needed.” Sam paces across the floor in front of the fireplace. “The supernatural is alive here, Dean.  All the logic in the world can not explain away what we witnessed.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Dean sits up with a grunt. “I saw him. There’s no room left for doubt. This place has brought to life a demon, now flesh and blood.”

“I can’t help but wonder, have I closed my mind to other such possibilities? Were there signs, clues pointing in the direction of the Horseman all along? Have we wasted time?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head, one hand on his thigh. “You’re thorough, Sam. That’s what makes you an effective investigator. I didn’t see it either.”

“We cannot be dissuaded.” Sam is animated, head bobbing as he thinks to himself. “If anything, these people need us now, more than ever. There is no man here, except for us, equipped to take on a true nightmare like The Horseman.”

“I agree.” Dean stands, patting his belly,  looking around for his coat. He stops, looking at Sam, as he pulls a memory from somewhere in the ether. “Do you remember when you were a little boy and that woman broke into our house? You were sleeping and woke up to her in the bedroom. She was crazed and attacked you.”

“How could I possibly forget that?” Sam snorts. “How old was I? Five? And all of a sudden this woman, who looked very much like a wicked witch, for the record, was clawing at me.”

“Dad intervened before she could do any real harm.” Dean gets lost in the memory.

“He told us she was shtriga. I was convinced that I survived a creature of the night only to find out she was the drunk from next door who’d wandered into the wrong house.”

“Do you ever wonder how many people he killed in the name of God? He was dead set on the idea of good and evil, black and white. Men and monsters. He never stopped to think that perhaps his judgment was clouded. He was nothing more than a preacher turned hunter who saw what he needed to see to be able to sleep at night.”

“Dad was the real monster.” Sam breathes and Dean freezes, jaw tightening as he looks at Sam.

“I guess he was.”

Van Tassel House - Downstairs

Baltus, Steenwyck, Doctor Lancaster and Notary Hardenbrook are having another meeting, this time with you and Lady Van Tassel on hand with the drinks. “Right,” Baltus nods, pacing the room. “This time I'll go to New York myself and I won't be saddled off with more amateur deductors.”

“Detectors.” Hardenbrook corrects. “Deductives, I believe.” Steenwyk raises a finger.

Doctor Lancaster shakes his head. “No, no…” You stand in silence watching a room full of men babble on about nothing.

“Look here, amateur sleuths!” Baltus demands the attention of the room. “This time it is a magistrate that is dead and we-”

The door flies open, hitting the wall with a resounding thud. Sam strides forward, looking not only transformed but raring to go. Dean is quick behind him, folding his arms over his chest with Young Masbath round-eyed just behind them. “Gentleman.” Sam nods, looking around the room. “I need able men to go with us into the Western Woods. Who will be the first to volunteer?”

“You’re going back out?” Your father questions in amazement. “We thought you’d shot your bolt.” “Merely a setback.” Sam’s eyes flicker to you. “It may surprise you to know that this is not the first supernatural creature my brother and I have encountered. Albeit most accounts of ghosts and ghouls have a perfectly preternatural explanation, but in rare cases, such as the one you have here, the culprit is truly metaphysical. There is no one better versed than we are. Today we move forward. We now know who has done these terrible-”

“Now you know, we already knew,” Steenwyck sneers. “Quite so.” Sam concedes.

“It seems fate has chosen us to work a case without parallel in the annals of crime - in short, to pit ourselves against a murdering ghost.” Dean asserts, eyes narrowing as he looks from man to man. You can feel a sickening fear rising in your stomach. Sam has just come into your life and the horseman may snatch him from you just as quickly.

“No, Sam-” You stop short as every soul in the room looks at you. Scrambling to collect yourself you start again. “Constable-”

Your stepmother smiles softly, a knowing grin you’ve come to recognize all too well.

“Tell me, Constables.” Lady Van Tassel looks from you to Sam and Dean. “Do you intend to arrest him? Or impound his horse?”

A low indulgent chuckle erupts throughout the room.

“Neither.” Sam’s unphased. “We intend to put an end to the killing. To discover the cause and remove it. Who’s with us?” This call to arms is met with a heavy silence. No one.

[marvalinafangheart]

Where are you?

Marvalina pulls her small beat up rowboat up onto the shore with a small grunt. She left her crew at the ship. 

“Captain. I must object. You have been dreaming about this place for over a year now. This was literally the place you were taken from. It could still be a hazard to you.” Big Jimmy follows his small captain around the ship as she gets ready to disembark.

“Jimmy. I understand your concerns. But look at it!” She points to the small seaport village, “It is completely abandoned. There is nothing left but empty buildings, being overrun with foliage.” “That is what I am worried about. Captain, you don’t know what lurks in those bushes. What if there are more mon- worgen ...” Jimmy looks at the wooden floorboards of the ship. Marv reaches up and pats the half orc’s shoulder, “I get you are concerned Jimmy and I appreciate it. You have always looked after me.” She offers him a kind smile. “But what if something happens to you Captain. Think of the kids. What will become of them if you die here today?” Marvalina chuckles, “You know very well today is not the day I die. I still got nineteen more years left.” Big Jimmy sighs and pats her hand, “You put too much faith in that seer.” “I have known her for a long time Jimmy. Longer than I have known you, not once have her predictions ever failed me. She told me that Zandryl and Vamillia would be born. She told me that when I fell I would rise again born of the sea.” Marv takes her hand of Jimmy’s shoulder and unties the small rowboat tied to the side of her ship. Marv pulls on the leavers and drops it down into the water slowly, “I will be back before nightfall tomorrow.” Once the rowboat touches down on the water she throws her survival pack over the side of the ship and into the rowboat. When Marvalina turns around she sees her entire crew has gathered. Such concern fills their faces. Some of these men such old sea dogs she never would never have thought they could show this level of emotion. Marv takes in a deep breath, “I DON’T PAY YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING BOOT LICKERS TO STAND AROUND GAWKING! GET TO SCRUBBING MY FLOORS! I SEE ONE MUDDY FOOTPRINT WHEN I GET BACK YE CAN SCRAPE THE BARNACLES OFF THE FLYIN’ BITCHES ASS WITH YER TEETH!”

Instead of moving to do what she ordered one man from her crew, Little Jimmy walks up to Marv carrying her captains hat. He hands it over to her, “Come back.” Marv looks down at the hat and takes it with a shaking hand. She looks at her crew slightly amazed before she puts it on her head. Marvalina’s face stern as she nods once to her crew. Her orange hair whipping through the wind. In sync her entire crew puts their right fist over their hearts in a salute, as she grabs onto the rope and slides down to the row boat below. With a simple wave of her hand and the smallest of spells it speeds forward. Standing with one foot on the bow she lifts her chin raising her head high. She was coming home.

Once the rowboat is rested and hidden on the shore, Marvalina comfortable with the thought of no one taking her one way back to the ship. She adjusts the pack on her back and sets off into the town proper.

Looking around she can see the carnage left behind on this town. Toppled over crab cages. Bones and bloodstains lay sporadically on the ground. As she walks through the docks her eyes catch a glimmer of something shiny on a skeleton. She walks over to examine the remains only to find a larger human holding on to a smaller one, a wolf’s head pendant with rubies for eyes resting around it throat. Marv pulls out her own matching pendant holding the golden wolfs head in her hands. “What were we?” She decides to leave the remains where they lie but vows to come back with her crew and give everyone a proper burial. Something everyone deserves. Rest at last.

Marv continues to walk up the docks. Focusing her mind for anything familiar. But the problem with returning home...is everything seems familiar, as well as nothing. 

Marvalina walks through the alley way that leads to the town proper when she hears footsteps running through the town square. Slowly she pulls out her flintlock and scimitar. With her back pressed up against the wall she slowly leaned around the corner to just in time to see someone run down another alley.

Who are you? Why are you here? 

Marv looks around to make sure the way is clear. Steeling her nerves she decides to follow the mysterious figure. Creeping between buildings and ducking through alley’s Marv is just a few steps behind the mysterious person. Only catching a glimpse of them each time. As they both migrate to the edge of town Marv stops dead in her tracks. Realizing where they are leading her. Right to where it happened. Right to where her old life ended and her new one began. The church. Marv puts her scimitar as she watches the figure run into the church itself. The doors no longer on their hinges, instead resting on the floor. The windows broken and shattered as vines creep inside the building. Remains lay strewn about the front steps. The paint peeling in some places and nonexistent in others. It takes Marvalina a loing while before she can even move. Memories of the church flooding through her mind. The pristine white building. The kind minister preaching love with in the Light on the front steps accepting any and all into the hallowed place. 

Marvalina’s hand tightens around the grip of the flintlock. Knowing one of those bodies is his. She walks towards the church. Ghosts of her past running by as if they were real, the abandoned street bustling with life in her mind. Memories of the fallen, now fresh and brought to life in her long forgotten memories. The sound of the church bells ringing on Sunday morning. As she braces the front steps she hears a giggling behind her.

Marv turns around to see the ghost of a little girl standing in the middle of the street.

“I wouldn’t go in there?”

Marv squints, “Why? What’s in there?”

“The wailing men.”

“Wailing men?”

“They call out her name, one in sorrow. The other in pain. He tortures the other day and night. Never letting him die for what he did to her.”

“Her who?”

“The taken one.”

Marv looks back to the building and then to the girl, “And if I go in there?”

“You’re going to die down here.”

Marvalina pulls the hammer back on her flintlock and smirks at the little girl, “Sorry to disappoint kid. But no one is getting me. Now run along.” The ghost girl fades out of existence and Marvalina shivers, “Note to self. Figure out why she is still lingering here.”

Marvalina slowly makes her way through the arch way of the church her pistol pointed up as to not accidentally fire on a friendly. She looks around the room only to find nothing the whole of the small church abandoned. She walks down the center aisle up to the altar once again as a shiver runs down her spine.

The small table which she once stood before, large claw marks mar the surface of the oak. Marvalina lightly presses her fingertips to the scratch marks. Leaning over to get a better look her hair falls over her shoulder. From the back looking like she has none at all. Lost in thought she doesn’t hear the man approach her until it is too late.

The voice a low growl, “What are you doing here?”

Marv doesn’t turn around instead she just looks at the blown out stained glass window. Her leather gloves hiding how tightly she is gripping the handle of her pistol, “Searching for answers. If you have come to rob me. I advise against it. If you have come to kill me. I advise against that too. You will be dead before you even hit the floor.”

The man slowly paces back and forth, “This is my home--you have no right to be here.” “Last I checked this was a church not a home. But, got to say. Love the decor. Going for a haunted grimey feel. I can respect it. Not my style I prefer silks and feather beds but to each their own.”

The man growls again the sound of metal scraping on the wooden floor makes Marv’s spine tingle as she stands up. Her hair falling down her back.

“Put your weapon away. I can promise you I will fire before you can even lift it.”

“Orange…” Filled with sadness followed by rage the man charges at Marvalina, “WHO ARE YOU?!”

Marvalina waits for the right second. Spinning around she draws a dagger out of her boot and jabs the barrel of her flint lock under the mans chin. She looks down and tapps the dagger against his inner thigh having not seen his face.

“I am Captain Marvalina Fangheart-”

The man’s voice chokes up as he drops his weapon which causes Marv to finally look up, “Marvie…” Tears welling up in his eyes Marv is met face to face with her former fiance. Her jaw drops as the memory of her wedding day comes flooding back. It wasn’t him who turned into a wolf. The wolves were not even wolves. They were Worgen, her people. Crashing through the stained glass window and taking her away from him and slaughtering everyone in the room.

“Nathaniel.” 

“M-Marvie.” Nathaniel reaches his hand up to lightly caress her cheek but she shoves him away.

“Get off me!” Marv groans as she holds her head, “Get away!”

Nathaniel steps closer to her and she let’s out a wall shaking roar shifting to her worgen form for just a second before going back to normal.

‘What did they do to you?”

“What do you think Nathaniel?! They turned me into one of them. Where were you? Where have you been?”

“Marvie-”

“Don’t call me that! Only one person in Azeroth get’s to call me that now and it is not you. You left me to die!”

“I tried to go after them I did! But by the time I came too they were all gone! I-I tried to figure out where you went but- I couldn’t. Please Marvie can I just-” He reaches his hand out to touch her again.

Marv points her flintlock right in between his eyes pressing it against his forehead, “The girl told me there were two in here. A torturer and one being tortured. Which one are you? Answer me truthfully and I may let you live.”

Nathaniel hangs his head out of shame, “I was the one doing the torturing.”

“So who is the other wailing man?”

“Richard.”

Marv once again, is shocked into lowering her weapon, “He is still alive?”

“As of three days ago...I think.”

“You think? Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He escaped, I was chasing him down tracking him, and then I saw you in here.”

“Wait- so you weren’t the one who lead me here?”

“No I was out looking for him.” 

Marvalina holds up her weapon again and slowly turns around examining the room. She looks up at the ceiling. Scratched into the wooden beam above, decorated with splinters and blood.

Welcome home little sister. Enjoy your stay.

Pinned to the beam much to Marvalina’s horror is Big Jimmy’s bandanna.

“I have to leave. Now.” Marvalina takes off running out of the church. Her heart pounds as her feet hit the cobblestones below. Nathaniel runs after her, keeping close behind. When they make it to the docks her ship is no longer in sight. Marvalina curses under her breath and tries to teleport out. Her hands light up with arcane energy only for them to flicker out.

“Fuck. Fuck work!”

“You can do magic now?”

“I have changed a lot since last we met.” She continues to try, “Shit! He isn’t going to let me leave. I have to get back to my crew. I have to get back to my kids.” She flicks her wrist a couple times. 

A loud thunk comes from behind. When she turns around Nathaniel is on the ground unconscious and bleeding from the back of his head. Marvalina bends down, “Nate. Nate!” She rests her hand on the back of his head and when she pulls it away it is covered in blood. Marvalina looks up. The church steeple shining in the light of the setting sun. One could mistake it for looking brand new. Then suddenly...everything. Went. Black.

[freyalor]

Word prompt- Ducks! The campus ducks have been out in full force today and are actually adorable, so ducks are somewhat on my mind.

This hasn’t been an easy one. But @lustigs-maerchenland has been pushing me up to the challenge for the very specific reason that you gave the same prompt to both of us!

So here’s my piece!  Have fun comparing!

A few deaths too many.

Fandom : History of FrancePairing : Louis/RichelieuDate : 1632Words : 3KRating : G

Blam!

Thedeafening gunshot makes me jump, gasping a little, and I force myselfsteady by crossing my arms tight.

Thesmell of powder hurts my throat. I hide my flinch with a sharp cough.

Nextto me, so close I can see the small clouds formed by his breath inthe raging cold, he yells in triumph, handing the musket back toTreville.Far away, somewhere beyond the poplars, a bird fallslike a stone, giving a series of faint thumps as it hits the radiantfoliages of early autumn.

Thehunting squires immediately spur their horses and disappear into thewoods in search for the small body, and soon enough one of them comesback galloping towards us, brandishing a lifeless bunch of feathers.

-“CongratulationsYour Majesty!” The boy exults as he presents the dead bird to him,head first, paws tucked back.

Itis – itwasamagnificent mallard, vibrant with lively hues of green and blue, hisbeak a masterpiece of bright yellow. A beautiful creature, just asGod has wanted it, well, until a musket bullet, made to piercethrough steel armours, tore a good half of his insides open wide.

It’snot even fit to be consumed. It’s dead. That’s all it is.

TheKing still turns to me, beaming joy, his dark hair flying wild uponthe nasty October winds, and I silently thank the bird, for what it’sworth, for having at least made this man happy. Times have been roughwith him lately, his duties forcing him twice to execute a man whoused to be very dear to him. Marillac, last August, andMontmorency, last week.

Myefforts have been numerous - andthey can be, trust me, of quite various natures– inthe hope of bringing back that smile to his lips, but my Louis is ahunter, and though he can never be indifferent to my wits andaffection, eventually, sooner or later, his pain has to be healed infresh, warm blood.

Hegestures at the dead duck with radiant pride, and I nod subtly,bowing to his deadly aim.

Helaughs, then, spins around and reaches out for Treville. The Captainreloads the musket in six expert moves and hands it back to theKing.

-“Splendidweapon, Captain!” Louis praises, and the Musketeer clicks hisheels.

-“Indeed,Your Majesty.” He muses. “A few of those in my regiment would bequite a blessing.”

Withthat, IknowTrevilleis looking at me. That’s why I very ostensibly avert my eyes.

ForGod’s sake we have talked about this a thousand times. The treasurywill never allow me to give such an expensive weapon to each andevery one of his trained dogs. They will be kept for the Royal Army’sinfantry, and that’s final. His boys spend more time running aroundwith pistols and swords than handling any kind of musketsanyways.

Trevillegrunts something under his breath, and I’m not sure it isappropriate, but I know better than to spoil my King’s newly-foundjoy with pointless bickering.

Holdingthe long, delicately chiseled weapon firmly in his arms, Louis keepshis narrowed eyes to the skies, and what he’s waiting for doesn’tfail to come. Indeed, a wave of dreadful cold has crashed uponFrance from up North, and we are in full migration season. Theskyline of Versailles is constantly crossed by graceful formations ofducks, escaping the cruelty of winter for the warmer climate of theMediterranean Sea.

Ilook up to marvel at the V-shaped battalion gently passing over themeadow. The birds follow their leader in perfect synchronicity,calling each other by sharp, modulated cries. I have seen amonghumans, I fear, less orderly regiments.

Iwon’t admire the birds for long. Louis is already clicking thematchlock, aiming, firing.

Blam!

Ijump again, biting my lips upon a whimper, cursing my nerves one moretime.

Thebirds squeak and scatter in confusion, disappearing from our sight inmere seconds. Two of them won’t have this chance, spiralling to theground in broken trajectories.

-“Ha!”Louischeers. “Have you seen that? Two of them!”

Again,the squires ride around. Again, horribly mutilated ducks are proudlybrought back to us. My King discusses the efficiency of the musketwith Treville some more, but as he turns to me, it really seems theonly thing he truly hopes for is my approval.

Andmy approval I gladly give, speaking my admiration for his skill,restraining my speech since he despises obsequiousness or fawning. Heseems to like my choice of words and laughs softly, making my heartswell in inescapable warmth.

Iam glad, I really am, to see him naturally blissful, comfortable outthere in the open, away from the palace of lies the Louvre willalways be. But I fear that beyond the pleasure of the hunt itself,this wild, feral man is also trying to impress me with his aim, theway the tradition of his bloodline most surely dictates.

Asif my love for him wasn’t granted forevermore.

Asif it could depend on a sad row of tattered birds.

Ifeel flattered, truly, by his will to draw my attention, and thereare indeed other men, in other places or other times, who would havebeen seduced by his unquestionable ability, but I have seen so muchblood pointlessly spilled upon French soil in my wretched lifetimethat even those ducks feel like a few deaths too many.

Soas Treville takes back the musket, reloads it with the same deftcompetence and returns it to Louis, I wish I could give the nextbirds a warning.  I wish I could spend one month of my life, oneweek, one day, without seeing something die.

Butthe meadow is well-chosen and the time of the year is perfect, so, ofcourse, merely minutes after the last gunshot, a smaller yetcolourful flock of ducks appear over the hunting lodge’s roof, and Ibrace myself, hugging my own chest, squeezing my eyes shut.

Blam!

TheKing roars. Isigh.

Anotherdead bird is laid down with the others upon a plain table behindTreville. Another artwork of nature is reduced to a pile of bloodiedflesh and broken bones. I can bear the sight of that forlorn featheryheap for so long before my stomach sinks, and I need to lower myeyes.

Iknow I have no right to look aside. I’m just being a hypocrite. Ihave signed, ordered, and designed more destruction than this musketcould ever cause. My hands are stained with the blood of moreinnocents than any hunt could ever kill. But precisely becausethe cries of those I had to sacrifice to forge a nation worthy of myKing will haunt my nights until I die, I cannot stand the blood ofthose sinless,  graceful creatures.

It’snothing more than a few deaths too many.

Asthe mighty gun is thoroughly compared to the flintlock or the heavypitchfork musket by a very enthusiastic Treville, the King spotsanother group of ducks over the Eastern woods, and snaps for theweapon to be reloaded.

Oh,please, Louis, just let them fly,I almost implore, but this sorrow I feel is but the whim of mytrouble nerves again I am sure.

Unwillingto ruin my King’s cheerfulness I keep my gaze on the ground, betweendead leaves and burgeoning mushrooms, tightening my coat around myshoulders, waiting for the killing spree to end, trying to chase awaythe ghost voices of my own damnation.

Ihear the scattered cries of migrating ducks approaching steadily, andI already bite my lips to muffle my whine at the next gunshot.

Somany deaths, so many souls. Fallen like stones upon French soil,their guts torn open by wars that needed to be waged. So many faces,so many names, waiting for me on Judgment Day, with their revengeupon their lips.

Enoughbullets, enough blood, please, Louis.I could not, in any way,love you more than I already do.

Theducks fly closer, the wind is clear.  Poplars whistle under the timidOctober light, but the thunder of gunpowder, it doesn’t come.

-”Cardinal?”

Ihave a start, my eyes snapping open, and I look up with a dry gulp.

MyKing is there, his musket suspended mid-air, watching me with aworried frown upon his soft, youthful brow. Treville, over hisshoulder, is staring too, more resigned maybe, in front of what hemust think as one more dizzy spell of mine.

ButLouis knows me more than this. He knows me as I know him, more thanhis own body, more than his own soul. He gauges my face, glances atthe ducks above, and meets my eyes again.

Ilower my head, biting my lips, ashamed to be too troubled to feelenticed by his demonstration, crushed, all of a sudden, by howdifferent we’ve always been. The flock passes right over ourheads, so close he could kill three of them in one shot. He’d be soproud, he’d be so glad, overjoyed to prove his worth on somethingless gruesome than a real battlefield. He’d yell injubilation, as the instinct of his bloodline surely dictates, butthat gunshot, itdoesn’t come.

Ilook up once more to see him exhalea long, shuddering sigh instead, and the grip of his musket gives outa muffled sound as it hits the ground between his boots.

-”Youwill never be bloody simple.”He just mutters under his breath, watching in irritation the birdsfly South with disciplined serenity.

Whenthe ducks have disappeared behind the line of high poplars, he shakeshis head a little, and hands the musket over to Treville for the lasttime.

-”Thatwill be all, Captain.” He says. “Order the boys back to thestables. I will join you for dinner in one hour.”

TheMusketeer lets out half a smile. He’s frustrated, no doubt, by theuntimely end of the new musket’s inspection, but he has just beeninvited to the King’s table, and this must mean more weaponrydiscussed later.

So,all in all, he bows quite joyfully and lays the musket back in itswooden case before he runs off to gather the squires.

We’releft alone, my King and me, as the October winds ruffle the tousledfeathers of the four ducks he destroyed. He beckons me close with asharp tilt of his head, and I take three steps forward, until mycloak, as it flaps upon the cold breeze, comes to stroke his handsand arms.

Wedon’t touch, it would be far from safe, but his eyes upon me growsoft and warm, the way they do when we’re in his rooms at night, andit’s enough to cut my breath in pieces.

-”Ifmy hunting skills only fill you with horror,” he whispers, low,dreadful, seductive,“how am I supposed to charm you?”

Ioffer a quiet smile, then, the one I know he likes.

-”Louis,”I breathe, feeling more than I see the deep shudder he always haswhen I speak his name, “don’t worry, you just did.”

Hefrowns again, panting a little, his cheeks taking a colour the coldweather alone cannot justify, and I lift one finger, pointing at theskies above Versailles, where a thin line of peaceful birds cross themeadow in gentle calls.

-”Withthe duck you didn’t kill.” I tell him, and the sound of hislaughter hunts down the ghosts of my crimes just as surely as hisfine musket would.

[ladypepperofdavenshire-archives]

“I hope you realize that I’m still against everything about this.  I’m only here because you asked me to come.”

Mr. Haddock sat on the opposite side of the carriage, thrumming his fingers on the windowsill.  He looked at Isolde with those piercing amber eyes, returned his gaze to the bouncing landscape outside.

“Just be grateful I didn’t spoil your plans and tell your mother,” Isolde muttered.  Mr. Haddock huffed a sigh, causing a momentary foggy circle to appear on the pane.  They had come to something of a truce after Isolde went off to think the day Mr. Haddock told her his motives behind accepting Sir Drexel’s challenge.  Isolde dropped the subject and restrained from interfering on her end, and Mr. Haddock avoided anything having to do with the duel in conversation around her.  Evans had been brought into the secret, and had himself requested that he be Mr. Haddock’s Second in the fight.  He rode on the box with the driver, who had also been sworn to secrecy.  Isolde grew fidgety as the carriage turned into the woods. They were three towns away from Broadburn, headed in the direction of the Haddock’s hunting lodge, which lent some half-truth to Haddock’s lie to his mother. 

This was where Sir Drexel and Mr. Haddock had agreed upon as the staging grounds for their duel.   The wheels grated against dead leaves that littered the forest floor, shafts of golden autumnal sunlight peeking through the trees’ canopy.  Isolde’s nervousness intensified.  Mr. Haddock, on the other hand, seemed as calm as could be.  She didn’t really think he could be so cool about this whole ordeal.  Not when Sir Drexel was involved.  Her fear of Sir Drexel had turned to cold hate as events played out; only part of her reason for coming was because Mr. Haddock asked if she would be there.  The other reason was in hopes that he’d shoot Sir Drexel dead. Isolde heard echoing voices from outside of the carriage.  She espied the sandy head of Sir Drexel glinting in the light amidst a crowd of well-dressed men.  She made an angry noise, of which Mr. Haddock took notice.  Before he could say anything, the carriage lurched to a stop and Evans was at the door.

“We’re here, Sir.” Mr. Haddock jumped down from the carriage and barred Isolde’s way with his arm.             

“I’d prefer it if you remain inside the carriage.  This isn’t something a woman should see.”

Isolde frowned down at him.  After all the trust the two of them had built up, this was how he treated her!

“Why?  Do you think I’ll faint at the smallest hint of blood?” she shot back. “You do realize I’ve seen worse; you get used to that sort of thing when your father is a tanner.”             

“Yes, you’ve told me that a dozen times over, but I would prefer it if you stayed here,” Mr. Haddock replied, a tone of finality in his voice.  Isolde returned his glare with her own.

“If you insist,” she muttered, sinking back into her seat.             

“Thank you, Miss Marlowe,” Mr. Haddock said, and shut the door.   

                                                           *

Haddock straightened his jacket and together with Evans, strode over to the area where Sir Drexel and his followers were mingling. Sir Drexel wore the same smug look he had after slapping Haddock in the face with his glove.  He raised a thin eyebrow.             

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come, Haddock.”

“And I thought you might swiftly leave town again, Drexel,” Haddock returned in the same tone.  Sir Drexel’s false smile widened as he narrowed his eyes.

“Where’s Miss Marlowe?  Did that doxy leave you for another man too?” Haddock held his fists in check.  You’ll get a chance to shoot him in a few minutes anyways.

“Where’s the pistols?” he asked instead. Sir Drexel snapped his fingers and a meek little man in indigo livery scuttled over with a wooden box.  The man opened the lid, revealing twin flintlock pistols resting on a velvet cushion.  Haddock eyed them suspiciously.  Sir Drexel barked a laugh.

“If you’re that mistrusting, why don’t you choose your weapon first, eh?”

“Fair enough,” Haddock said, and lifted the pistol on Sir Drexel’s side, all the while watching Sir Drexel’s face to see if he would betray any of his schemes.  Sir Drexel’s sneer didn’t waver.  He fished the other pistol out of the box and the liveried man snapped the lid shut and retreated from whence he came.  Haddock handed his pistol over to Evans, who looked at it all over.  He handed it back with a curt nod.  Nothing irregular.  When Haddock looked back up, another man had appeared at Sir Drexel’s side.  He was dark-haired and rail-thin with deeply-pitted eyes that made Haddock think “criminal.”             

“This is my Second, Vespa.  He and your butler will decide how this duel should end.”

Haddock already discussed with Evans that he didn’t plan on holding back with Sir Drexel, so there was no need for this duel to be settled with first blood.  Vespa held his hands folded in front of him, rubbing a large ring on his finger while studying Evans.             

“How do you wish this fight to proceed, Signore?” the man asked.  His voice was low and smooth.  “Do the combatants cease after drawing first blood, when one falls, or to the death?”

Evans hesitated, seeming as if he was mulling the options over.  He looked at Haddock with a slight questioning expression in his eyes, but Haddock kept his eyes fixed on Sir Drexel.             

“To the death,” Evans said.

“So be it,” Vespa said.  He said something in Italian to Sir Drexel, who laughed.  Sir Drexel shed his coat and handed it to the thin man, who left to join the rest of the entourage.  Haddock removed his coat as well and handed it to an expectant Evans. Evans took the coat, face void of emotion.  He turned to leave, and with his back at Sir Drexel, gripped Haddock’s shoulder.             

“Good luck, Sir,” he said and walked off to the side.  Haddock held the gun with both hands, feeling its weight. He couldn’t tell if anything was off about it either.              “Why the audience?”

“I promised my friends something exciting when I was last in London.  I thought this would be more than satisfactory for them.”             

Haddock’s extremities went cold.  So this had been planned. Sir Drexel drew a few steps closer so that they were face to face.  He pitched his voice low.

“I’ve been looking forward to this, Haddock.  You better hope that your aim is as good as your handiness with your claws.”             

He traced a long, crooked scar over the bridge of his nose.  Haddock forced down the thing inside of him that wanted to fight Sir Drexel then and there with fists and nails.

“Ten paces,” he barked.  Sir Drexel shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re only prolonging the inevitable.”

They both turned back to back.

“When this is over, I’m reclaiming what you stole from me,” the leering devil said under his breath.             

“One,” Haddock said, taking a step.  Sir Drexel followed suit. “…Two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten!”

Two shots split the serenity of the forest.  Sir Drexel reeled backwards as blood sprayed from his shoulder and spattered over the dead leaves on the ground and his Second, a terrific howl erupting from his mouth.  Haddock also jerked backwards.  Something hot and burning had sunk itself into his chest.  He exhaled deeply as the pain increased tenfold and let the pistol drop from his fingers.  He felt warm, wetness blossoming from his chest.  Haddock coughed and crumpled backwards like a ragdoll.  The wound didn’t hurt so much as the bullet, which felt like a hot poker had been rammed through his ribcage.  He stared up at the autumn canopy as he heard Evans running up to him, trampling dry leaves and sticks.

Haddock grit his teeth, knowing he shouldn’t have left the duty of bringing the dueling pistols to Sir Drexel. It had been a silver bullet loaded in the other’s gun.  Haddock had only experienced this kind of pain before, when a savvy huntsman who had heard rumors of a werewolf in Broadurn’s parts had shot him in the arm while Haddock had been galloping across the moors during a full moon.  He coughed and tasted metallic blood.  Evans skidded to a halt on his left while Miss Marlowe sank down beside him on his right.  Hadn’t he told her to stay in the carriage?  She never listened.  He tried to reprimand her but choked on blood.  Evans was methodical as he assessed Haddock’s injury, ripping open his master’s vest and shirt, jaw tight.  Miss Marlowe’s face was blanched as she watched Evans at work.

“Will he be all righ—?”

“Yes, if I can stop the bleeding and get that piece of metal out of him,” Evans replied coolly.  He applied pressure to the wound.

“Call the carriage over, Miss Marlowe. We need to get Master Haddock to the hunting lodge where I can work.”             

Miss Marlowe left Haddock’s field of vision, swift crunching footsteps headed in the carriage’s direction.               

“If you don’t mind me speaking candidly, Sir,” Evans said quietly, “You were damn fool naïve to trust Sir Drexel.  This bullet is silver.”

“So was his,” Haddock coughed. Evans’ eyebrows jumped up and he looked up.  Raised voices and crackling underbrush were coming from Sir Drexel’s side as the wounded man continued to groan.  Haddock stiffly twisted his head to see how the other combatant was faring.  Sir Drexel was kneeling on the ground, face contorted in pain as he clutched a blood-soaked arm while Vespa and another man from his entourage gathered him up and deposited him in one of the party’s carriages.  Vespa directed his face at Haddock and Evans, blinked his dark eyes, and mounted the carriage.  The party began to leave in droves.              “Cowards!” Evans hissed.  The rumble of Haddock’s carriage sounded even louder with his ear mashed against the ground.             

“Evans.”

“Yes, Sir?”             

“Take Miss Marlowe back to her home after—”

Bloody saliva filled the back of his throat and he had to spit.             

“Take her home after—”

“Yes, Sir.” The worry on Evans’s face was mingled with understanding.  Haddock closed his eyes as his body gave a convulsive shudder.  The driver leapt to the ground and helped Evans carry Haddock into the carriage.

Haddock’s impressions of the carriage ride to the lodge were fragmentary.  Evans’s face cast in deep shadows while the vehicle bounded through the woods, the man’s white sleeves rolled up as his master’s fresh blood stained his hands and arms.  Horses’ labored breathing.  Speckled sunlight dancing across the windowpane.  Thundering of the wheels.  Miss Marlowe’s pale hands holding his head in her lap as she whispered a repeated prayer.  Blackness.

[istrys]

The Vinterblot Pt 4

The Jester’s Folly sailed beneath the full moon, slowly rocking back and forth from the ocean's waves. Cleverly disguised as a merchant ship, the night shift remained alert for any potential ships foolish enough to sail in these lawless waters; but most of the crew were sloppy drunk or fast asleep. Rethandus spent a fortnight with his hands frozen to the bottom of the ship, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He couldn't bring anything that could risk the Defias Brotherhood from learning the Bloodsworn Vanguard was meddling in their affairs, so he had to leave his runeswords behind. He couldn't bring his armor either- not unless he wanted to risk losing his grip to sink like a rock into the sightless depths; he wore nothing but simple cloth trousers and armed with only the two frost runes carved into his palms. He wanted to wait until he was convinced they were too far from the shore to escape for help, but the agony twisting in his bones compelled him to act; time was no longer on his side.

Rethandus scaled the outer hull of the ship, freezing the seawater with the only two runes he had at his disposal. Eventually he poked his head out from the churning waves, keeping his stomach filled with water- just in case he needed to improvise. He found the nearest cannon door and carefully crawled through it like a pale, four-legged creature. Inside he found his first victims, sound asleep with the only source of light coming from a couple lanterns scattered around the corners of the lower deck. Rethandus expelled a handful of saltwater as quietly as he could, freezing it into a short but razor-sharp spike. When he lurked close enough to reach out and touch the first pirate of many, the soothing of his wretched curse began.

Rethandus tightly close his free hand around the human's mouth before driving the ice spike deep into his jugular; he opened his eyes wide from the sudden agony that ripped him out of his sleep, but he didn't thrash for very long. Blood oozed from both his gaping wound and from in between the Death Knight’s fingers, but his muffled scream was over almost as quickly as it began. Once Rethandus was sure he was dead, he slowly withdrew the icicle blade, freezing some of the pirate's blood to make his deadly weapon even longer.

 One by one they all met the same fate, and they all handled it mostly the same; mind-shattering agony, blinded confusion, burning hatred or hopeless despair, then silence. Rethandus executed more than twenty pirates in their beds, clearing row after row until he was alone again. The Undead Curse festering in his bones was well pleased, clearing his head and briefly giving him comfort; but his task was only halfway done, and he could not let this satisfaction distract him from the sole purpose of attacking these pirates in the first place.

 The upper deck was far more lively. The skeleton crew of the Jester’s Folly masquerading as merchants walked to and fro, keeping the ship set to course in the dead of night. Rethandus adjusted his newly acquired cloak and hat, choosing to remain incognito while he made his way to swab the poop deck. The pirates were too busy with their tasks to pay much attention to him, allowing him to walk freely atop the ship. He needed to end this massacre with the captain being the single remaining survivor, or he may never find the piece of treasure his master yearns for before their rescue arrived. Despite the moderate rain, a light fog began to roll in, indicating they were sailing too close to the Howling Fjords of Northrend; now was the time to finish what he started.

 “Captain!” a groggy pirate stumbled onto the deck, with blood on his hands and terror in his eyes. “The crew is dead! Everyone is dead!” Rethandus peeked up from under the brim of his hat to see a young human step forward; his fancy coat and jewelry dangling around his neck gave away his rank on this doomed ship.

 “Find the bastard who did this!” he bellowed, drawing his cutlass. “Search every inch! I want that assassin brought to me alive!” The Tauren Navigator and Human Helmsman gave each other terrified and confused glances, but they were just about the only two to remain at their posts. Rethandus slowly set down the mop and bucket he carried with him and approached the two from behind; he knew he had to spend his element of surprise on taking that tauren out first, causing him to focus his burning blue gaze on the ragged hide of the pirate’s back. The fog that drifted across the deck of the ship began to shift and writhe at the Death Knight’s influence, provoking the Tauren to turn around to spot him.

 Rethandus froze the blood in his left fist solid and poured every ounce of raw unholy power he had into a whopping underhanded swing; without his encumbering armor his strength was unchecked, allowing him to slam his frozen mallet of a fist squarely into the tauren’s chin with unrestrained fury. He struck him with the force of a frost giant, sending his teeth into the back of his brain while his eyes exploded out of his skull. What sounded like a pumpkin being obliterated caught the attention of the Helmsman, causing him to leap an inch off the ground and check what was happening behind him. “Wait… WAI-!” he barely had enough time to speak before Rethandus reached out and grabbed him by the face, shattering his nose from the impact. As the blood in his face and eyes froze, Rethandus drove his free hand deep into the pirate's belly, causing his fist to explode out of his lower back.

 The poor soul let out a blood-curdling scream, as planned. Every pirate aboard the Jester’s Folly looked up to see their Helmsman split in half, torn apart like stubborn parchment before a ghostly pale figure with burning blue eyes. “What?!” the Captain hissed, taken aback by such cruel brutality. “Kill him! KILL HIM!” A few of the pirates were able to shake away the shock of seeing their comrade’s violent death, drawing their flintlock pistols to fill the intruder with hot iron.

Rethandus still held the upper half of the Helmsman while he leapt off the poop deck, freezing the body in his grasp solid to shield himself; a few bullets whizzed past his head, but he felt most of them strike his frozen meat shield as he dashed toward the nearest pirate. Rethandus tossed the corpse forward, staggering his target long enough to get in close. The Death Knight struck him dead-center with his frozen fist, obliterating the pirate's ribs while sending him flying over the railing to plummet into the sea. Another pirate charged the Death Knight with a straight sword in each hand, only to be blinded with a blast of subzero seawater forcefully expelled from the Death Knight's stomach. He snatched one of the blades from the blinded human and tossed him carelessly over the side.

 The other pirates struggled to reload their guns, choosing to work with their stubborn weaponry instead of unsheathing their weapons to defend themselves. Rethandus brought his blade down, tearing through the cloth, flesh and bone of the next pirate's chest with minimal effort. Immediately he twisted the blade around and brought the blade back up again, cleanly severing an arm and a head from the rest of his body. The next one swung his bastard sword across from the right, but Rethandus saw the swing coming from a mile away. The Death Knight rolled low, faster than the pirate was prepared for; underestimating the undead proved to be a fatal mistake, as Rethandus shot up to his feet and buried his blade deep into the pirate's chest, piercing his heart before popping out of his back.

 Rethandus twisted the blade once the hilt struck the pirate's skin, ensuring this night would be his last; but he struggled to freeze his blood for reasons he didn't have time to think about. The second round of bullets burned holes through the body shield, piercing the Death Knight's chest and legs. He wavered but did not relent, instantly freezing the blood in his own body to dampen the damage. Three pirates charged him at once with their swords drawn, hoping to overwhelm him with their numbers. Rethandus ripped his blade out of his meat shield and turned to face his aggressors, instantly freezing the splattered blood and rainwater across the deck beneath his feet; they were caught completely off guard by the sudden change of the terrain, slipping along the slick deck to collapse before him.

 It didn’t take long for Rethandus to realize these humans had very little combat experience, if any; they hit him with everything they had, but they were weak, poorly organized and reckless. The Death Knight plunged the end of his blade into their heads one by one, leaving the three corpses to twitch uselessly behind him. One pirate was convinced this cursed elf was unstoppable, dropping his rifle to leap cowardly into the freezing black sea; with the ocean spanning out endlessly in every direction, it was clear he would rather drown slowly than face his executioner. Only the first mate stood in between Rethandus and his prime target. The frost runes hissing on his palms had been exhausted and needed time to recharge, just when he needed them the most. Rethandus stared at the first mate while the captain of this doomed vessel fled into his cabin. The pirate drew his rapier and dropped into his defensive stance the moment the Death Knight began to approach.

 Rethandus greeted his opponent's forward thrust with a lightning quick parry, nearly shattering both of their blades with his inhuman strength. The first real challenge aboard the Jester’s Folly sent the Death Knight into a frenzy at the thrill of this duel, but the scornful grimace spread across his pale lips remained unflinching. The human danced out of the way of certain death again and again, leaping back to gain a healthy distance several times to avoid Rethandus’ ferocity. But as the duel dragged on, the pirate's thrusts began to wane; his strikes became weaker and less accurate while his attempts to keep the Death Knight at a distance grew less effective. He stumbled back from blocking a lethal strike, causing him to collapse against the outer railing. Yet he continued to hold his sword aloft, seemingly prepared to continue defending himself. Yet Rethandus wasn’t in the mood for mercy. The Death Knight rushed toward the exhausted pirate with a surge of strength, slashing the human’s hand off to send his blade into the sea; he cried out in agony but his screams did not last long, for Rethandus drove the tip of the blade deep into his mouth to silence him. At last only the Captain remained.

 The door was locked from the inside, something Rethandus was strangely not expecting. With his runes still recharging he decided to use brute force instead, slamming his foot into the door with more than enough strength to rip it out of its hinges. What remained of the door was sent airborne, slamming into the Captain who was foolish enough to stand in the middle of the room. He staggered from the blow but did his best to keep his pistol steady, firing blindly into the debris in a hail-mary attempt to slay this monster with a lucky hit. Rethandus continued to walk forward with one frozen hand protecting his head, seemingly shrugging off the bullet wounds in his chest and shoulder; he side-stepped out of the third shot, swatting the weapon out of his hand with a vicious swing. The human unsheathed a hidden dagger from his boot to thrust deep into the Death Knight’s temple, but his exhaustion and fear made him slow and predictable. Rethandus caught him by the wrist with one hand, and slammed him into the adjacent wall by the throat with the other.

“Where is it.” Rethandus demanded in the Common tongue, speaking as clearly as he could despite the eerie echo in his voice. The Captain refrained from speaking, still struggling to break free from his grasp to try and kill him again. Out of patience and running out of time Rethandus crushed the captain's wrist beneath his crippling strength, already looking around for something to throw him into. “Where is it?!” he shouted into the human's ear, burning his face with his icy breath.

 “F-fuck you…!” the Captain hissed. Rethandus immediately responded with violence, slamming his knee deep into the human's stomach. Tightening his grip around the pirate's throat, Rethandus lifted him high into the air while he desperately clawed at the Death Knight's hand with his unbroken arm. “Never…!” he gasped out while his face began to turn red. “I'll… NEVER… aaauuck…!” He was no longer able to breath, let alone speak, as the Death Knight's fingers burrowed into his throat. Rethandus held him suspended in the air, watching him kick and thrash violently while his face began to puff up and turn blue; he intended to strangle him until he died, deciding it would be faster to search the ship for his treasure than play these games.

Something caught his attention; the sound of something heavy was rolling around in the nearby cupboard, as the ship began to tilt back and forth from the churning waves. Once the Captain was on the brink of asphyxiation he released him, letting him collapse and crumble onto the cold wooden floor. Rethandus remained as silent as the grave while he walked across the length of the cabin. His burning blue eyes fixated on the source of the noise as soon as it rolled again. He ripped the intricate steel lock off with little effort, carelessly tossing it aside with one hand while he opened the cupboard with the other. The Death Knight's eyes grew wide at the polished gem, and the malevolent soul that was trapped inside it; it seethed with an insidious hatred he could barely comprehend, nearly burning at his eyes with the sickly yellow glow it radiated. Of all the objects he would retrieve for his master, this one was easily the most unsettling.

 “The Defias…” the Captain coughed, still struggling to catch his breath. His wounds were starting to catch up to him, and the blood loss was taking a serious toll on his recovery; without medical help he wouldn’t last until dawn. “We will… never forget this…” Rethandus remained silent, calmly plucking the gem out of the cupboard to slip into his pocket. He approached the last survivor of the Jester’s Folly with haste, swooping down to catch him by the throat to drag him to the corner of the cabin. With his free hand he ripped the lid off a nearby barrel, revealing a large quantity of ale this human was likely going to treat himself with for his discovery. The Death Knight remained silent while he plunged the Captain’s broken arm into the ale, using one of his charging runes to freeze the ale barrel solid. “What… why don't you just kill me?!” he demanded, crying out in pain as the unbearable cold stung his flesh and froze his blood within the barrel.

 The weather was making a turn for the worst; the waves slammed into the sides of the Jester’s Folly with reckless abandon, and without a crew to maintain the ship, it wouldn’t be long until this storm swallowed the vessel whole. Rethandus froze his boots to the floor as the ship spun in place, but he wasn’t about to wait around to see what happened. The sails began to tear at the mercy of the howling wind and pouring rain, causing the pirate corpses scattered across the deck to slide off into the devouring sea. Rethandus summoned his Death Gate for his hasty escape, but before he stepped onto the other side, he turned to see a colossal tidal wave headed for the Jester’s Folly.

“A Captain always goes down with his ship.” Rethandus turned his gaze toward the tortured human and held it there for a full second, before disappearing to safety on the other side.